The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mister Budge having finished his History of the Middlesex Election giveth a History of his Visit at Mr. Pitt's House, in Park Place; where a very curious Conversation taketh place between Mister Budge and the Servants, that showeth what wonderful Liberties Servants take with their Masters, behind their Backs.

211

You bid me go, my lord, and quare
Vor Mister Pitt—zo I went there
And nack'd—and zo stapp'd in;
Zays I, ‘My lord hath zent to know,
How Mr. Pitt doth do, and zo.’—
Zo Thomas strok'd his chin;

And hemm'd and ha'ad—at last, says he
‘Look, Joe—I'll tell thee what—dost zee—
Our measter is dam bad—
A drink'th too hard—muddleth his head,
And not till your a goeth to bed,
That mak'th me cursed mad.

‘Measter's a toper ev'ry inch:
Egod, I never know'dn flinch,
Iss, measter wull die game;
He'll never run, I'll answer vor't;
He waan't forsake the good old port,
And quinch his nose's flame.

‘And zo what signifieth the pills,
And trade, that a large basket vills,
That Doctor Farq'har zends?
Lord, Lord! why ev'ry sarvant laughs,
To zee the bolusses and draffs,
While measter never mends.

212

‘Ere long he'll zing another tune—
I think we shall ha mourning zoon,
Death wull be vor'n too cunning.
We have rare times o't, to be shore—
No key upon the cellar door,
The cock for ever running.’

‘Thomas,’ quoth I, ‘I hugely itch,
To know if measter Pitt be rich,
Hæ, Thomas—lean or fat:
By many peepel I've be told,
That was a to be bought and sold,
A isn't worth a graat.’

‘Zo many peepel za,’ quoth Tom;
‘But trust me, Joe, 'tis all a hum,
A trap to take in ninnies;
Pretending to be cruel poor,
But az we zay here, that's a bore,
Our measter roll'th in guineas.

‘Yes, mun, he shams, and foams, and frets,
Pretendin a caan't pay his debts,
To prove to all the nation,
He doth not take their goods away,
Stidding their int'rest ev'ry day,
And bring about salvation.

‘I, I,’ quoth Thomas with a wink,
‘I fear my measter's name will stink,
Like carrion, vore 'tis long:
Vokes make about'n now no rout—
They all begin to ven'n out,
And freely gee their tongue.

‘Meend me,’ quoth Tom, ‘the man I know—
To Walmer Castle zoon he'll go,
And simm zo poor, good Lord!
Pertendin there was nothing sterrin:
Zo make a dinner 'pon a herrin,
Upon an old deal board.

213

‘He'll git a box of wood or tin,
To put his zalt and pepper in,
And munch his meal at noon,
Without a rag o' table clath;
And now shall ha a dish o' brath,
And use a wooden spoon;

‘Make meals on barley bread and tates,
'Pon trenchers too, instead o' plates;
Drink nort but dead small beer;
And that too from a penny jug,
Not able to avoard a mug,
Poor man—no, that too dear.

‘Old Chatham did the very same,
To git a little crumb o' name,
The damnest eat-all glutton.
He too could live, forsooth, 'pon leet;
Could feast upon an ounce of meat,
And peck a bone o' mutton.

‘But when old Pynsant, the mad fool
(Beginning, I suppose, to drule),
Play'd zich a mazeg'rry trick,
And gidd'n all his fine estate;
God help the poor old fellow's pate!
'Twas comfortably thick.

‘How quickly chang'd old measter's pallet!
Down his long droat, Lord, zich a wallet,
He stuff'd of vlesh and vish;
Vensun and terbot—ev'ry thing,
Fit to be put bevore the king,
With ev'ry dainty dish.

‘Zich slaying, Lord! vrom morn to night!
The cocks and hens in zich a fright!
'Twas all devour, devour!
The pigs and poultry, ducks and geese,
And terkies worth a crown a-piece,
Cried “murder” ev'ry hour.

214

‘Loads tumbled in of ev'ry kind:
Cook laugh'd, and nearly burst her wind—
The sarvants all stood grinnin;
'Twas roast, and boil, and fry away,
The spits were ternin all the day,
And all the jacks were spinnin.

‘Iss, iss, old Chatham dood the same,
That made the kingdom cry out shame,
Aye, over, mun, and over;
And measter's one of the old brood,
The heart and soul, the bones and blood,
As vur's I can discover.

‘He trieth to zee the king, I zay,
Drowing his zelf zo in his way,
To ketch a wink or nod—
But, ah! that hacky mun waan't smoke:
The k--- waan't take agen his yoke,
No, no, a waan't, by G---d.’

‘The ------ was hamper'd long anew,
And now bidd'th leading strings adieu—
Iss, bidd'th mun go to H*ll.
Now this geeth all the world delight:
The gentleman is in the right,
Agosh! to please his zell.

‘Thou zeest, Joe, that I speak my mind;
And trust me, zoon the world will vind
Our measter's virtue fudge—
'Tis true, Joe, ev'ry bit, I'll swear,
As true, Joe, as that thee stand'st here,
Az true's thy name is Budge.

‘One may zee daylight—iss, iss, faith,
Droo a small hole, the proverb zaith;
I neither make nor mend.
O Lord, I daan't tell all I know;
But mum, I'm dumb, I'm dumb, and zo---
Cats wink that be not blend.

215

‘Zome friends call now and then to zee'n,
And little crumes o' comfort gee'n,
And tell'n about the k---;
Then with a stare he shak'th his head,
Az much az though his mouth had zed,
Ah, Lord! 'tis no zich thing.’

‘Now Tom,’ quoth I, ‘about reform—
Thee mendest the gert and merty storm,
Bevore he got in place.’
‘Aye, aye,’ zay'd Tom, ‘I meend the day,
When measter starm'd and fum'd away,
And put up his long face.

‘I heer'd un often with his gang,
Aboo stairs 'pon th' affair harrang,
And joking with the duke;
Yes, fath, I heard their conversation;
To think how nice the gudgeon nation
Got hang'd upon their hook!

‘But, Joe, th' Old Bailey was the worst,
Where measter gin'st his will was forc'd
To gee his davy in;
The curt at once leek'd bullocks star'd,
His friends that follow'd'n were scar'd,
His enemies 'pon the grin.

‘The jidge, his friend, that wish'd un well,
Wish'd he would recollect his zell,
Ecod, he was near cort!
Zo measter hemm'd, and stettering zaid,
He thort his mem'ry was decay'd,
And cruel, cruel short.

‘And zo the jidges said they thort—
And then a wink went round the curt;
And Sheridan, the thief,
Who never spar'th a man an inch—
Gid'n a dam confounded pinch,
Agosh! was in his beef.

216

‘Joe, thee'st a zeed a paper keet
Heigh mounted, tackle all complete,
When, Lord, the string break'th, snap—
Than how a wheelth! now high—now zunk;
Dipp'th here and there, leek a man drunk,
When down a tumbleth zwap.

‘Agosh! zo our poor measter vall'd.
Most cussedly the man was maul'd;
Iss, iss, a zing'd dam smaall.
'Twas lucky too—vor, had the jidge
Own'd a spite, or bit o' gridge,
T'had been a harder vaall.

‘But all's blow'd over now, friend Joe;
Thee know'st that happen'd long ago—
'Tis now become a joke.
But there, Joe, as vor thee and I,
We mustn't speak our meends—vor why?
We must'n tich gert voke.

‘Measter's a greandenstone—zo rough,
He is not complaisant enough,
Not civil to the crown.
And than remember the poor prince:
Lord! how my measter mad'en wince!
Zwinge! how a let'n down!

‘He did behave t'un cruel hard;
And now he meet'th with his reward—
It is too late to flatter.
His royal highness waan't forgee't:
He lov'th un, fath, I plainly zeet't,
As the Dowl lov'th holy water.

‘Holwood wull by and by be zold,
To make a view good bits o' gold;
Zo he mak'th wise and frets.
But meend, my maister dothn't want wit;
'Ere long he wull contrive to git
Zome fool to pay his debts.

217

‘He caan't come in agen, vokes zay—
Too menny bars be in his way:
Bezides—the people hate'n;
And could they git'n in their claws,
Ecod, they'd pound his lantern jaws,
And leek a bull they'd bait'n!

‘Canning the school-boy lurk'd in here,
And zaftly whisper'd in his ear,
He'd git'n from disgrace;
He'd quickly tak'n by the poll,
And lug'n vrom his dirty hole,
And mak'n show his face.

‘He zaid he had be'd sly about,
To veel the marchants pulses out,
And for subscription caall;
Vor a brass image vor the town,
To which the people must bow down,
And worship leeke old Baal.

‘But this was laughing in his sleeve—
Contriv'd to make the king believe,
That when he turn'd out Pitt,
Off went the wisdom o' the court—
All that remain'd was good vor nort,
It wudn't sarve a nit.

‘The marchants, thoose that deal'd in loans,
That fatten'd up their skins and bones,
All runn'd into the trap;
‘An image, image,’ was the cry—
Od dam the blockheads then! thought I—
What! gull'd by zich a chap!

‘That zich a boy shud take mun in!
Lord! ev'ry mouth was on the grin,
Dree pearts of theese gert town.
‘Iss, put the image up,’ vokes zay,
‘Iss, put'n—and that very day
We'll try to put'n down.’

218

‘And zo they wull, except vokes race
To Newgate vor a strong safe place,
Or inside Bedlam walls;
Or if the world must zee his phiz,
The image must be made to quiz,
Aloft upon Saint Paul's.

‘Zo much vor images, friend Joe,
But thee and I baan't blend, dost know—
I giss we know what's what.
Well, Joe, as I were zaying, hæ,
Az no more hopes of courts I zee,
I'm looking vor my hat.

‘I've made zome hundreds in my place:
But az my maister's in disgrace,
What must a body do?
Thou zeest I speak my meend out, Joe;
And as the maister's on the go,
The sarvant shud go too.’

Now zich was our discoose, my lord—
I daan't know that I've miss'd a word,
No, not a single thing;
And if you shud think fit, or zo,
Your lordship, if you please, may show
My letter to the king.

POSTKREP.

MY lord, bevore I wrote theese letter,
I heeard the sarvants grin and chetter,
About a thing in hand;
'Tis caal'd a statue for 'Squire Pitt,
To honour'n vor his pow'rs o' wit,
And sense that sav'd the land.

219

They do zo laugh, and make zich jeers,
And d*mn mun, zo torment my ears,
And mock'n zo in print:
The cheeldish fools shud wear a bib—
And zee, my lord, a louzy squib;
I'm sure you'll zee nort in't.